War
by Magicallioness
Summary: The war against Voldemort is waging and Harry, Hermione and Ron are doing all they can to make sure their side wins. But why is Draco fighting on their side and what is going on between him and Harry?


_Disclaimer: _  
_Anything belonging to the HP universe belongs to J.K. Rowling and others who have bought the rights to meddle with her toys. Anything that's not is mine, unless stated otherwise. I'm just playing around here, not making money, so please don't sue. Coach Littelton is mine, though._

_Author's note's:_  
_A long time ago I read a HP fanfic on Fictionalley about the war against Voldemort. It was loosely based on modern warfare with Harry and others as flyers (like fighter pilots). I don't remember the writer or the title, but combined with an episode of Band of Brothers I saw that same night it inspired me to write my own version of the war against Voldemort. Not finished, so not beta'd either._

**Summary:  
The war against Voldemort is raging and Harry, Ron and Hermione are doing all they can to make sure their side wins. But why is Draco fighting with them and what is going on between him and Harry? **

_**War**_

One moment we were huddled together under the trees, seeking cover in their shadows that are darkened by the twillight. The next, there was a barrage of sounds and colours. Blue, red and green flashes streaked the sky, casting eerie colored shadows on all our faces, while booming, crashing and screeching sounds battled for attention. Everything was complicated even further by an outburst of sudden and chaotic movement. People getting to their feet, running for cover this way or that, calling for each other, trying to find out what's happening and spreading through the woods at the same time to cover more ground and be a less easy target. This attack had not been expected.

"Weasleys, left flank! Zabini, take the right! Darkholme on me! Potter! Get me a scout up then form a second line! Weasley! Contact team Thestral and tell them our situation, asap! Let's go, let's go!" Commander Gangrene is barking orders like mad, while running for cover.

Everybody else is doing the same, getting into position and finding a good spot to hide at the same time. Blaise Zabini can duck only just in time and the orange streak that was aimed at his head, hits the tree behind him instead. The tree bursts into flame, bathing our camp in a warm orange glow. It's a foreign thing, seeing the flames licking at the slowely blackening tree, killing it, and painting a war scene in a glow you suspect to see on the face of your lover.

A couple of meters from Zabini, Pansy Parkinson can not avoid the spell aimed at her and she's flung several feet into the woods. She flies like a rag doll, arms and legs temporarely rendered useless by the blow. She splinters several branches on her way and someone calls out her name in shock. She lands with a soft thump and several heads turn in worry. The string of loud and inventive curses drifting our way through the woods lets everybody know that she is alright though.

On the left flank, Fred and George call their unit into order. They sound like a weird two-voiced creature, with Fred calling "Thomas!" and George finishing "find Parkinson!". Unit Orange is the only unit with two leaders in the entire army. They tried to separate the twins, it didn't work out.

In the middle of all the racket and shooting, I'm not surprised to hear Harry telling Draco to get back down on his own. He's not telling him to be careful outright, he never does, but Draco gets the message clearly enough. He nodds shortly before getting on his broom and taking off to find out who the hell is shooting at us, where from and how many of them there are. There's a faint line of worry between Harry's eyes as he watches his second in command take off. Three years ago, nobody would've believed it, but so much has changed since the start of this war.

Ronald is sending messages like a maniac. His wand is moving so fast over his message chute that I can hardly follow what he's saying: "Team Phoenix under attack. Taking fire in Ravenforest. No visual, scout up. Fire coming from north and increasing. Probably several troops opposing. Requesting back-up asap". He doesn't even look up when somebody screams in pain, just sends: "Taking casualties. Repeat, request back-up".

In the meantime, Harry has set his flyers up right behind Darkholmes first line of spellcasters. Almost thirty men and women dressed in tight fitting magically enhanced combat gear hover just behind the heads of fifty powerful witches and wizards in camouflaged robes. Harry's fliers are cancelling out as many opposing spells as they can, but they can't help some slipping past. Every time one of Darkholmes people goes down, two of Harry's turn their brooms and drag them out of the line of fire. As a third victim is dragged off unconcious, everybody is startled when something comes crushing through the bushes like a comet and lands behind Potters line. The Reds leader whirls and points his wand at the object all within a second. The object is Draco. He's looking a little worse for the wear, but nothing serious. A look passes between them and they hurry off towards the centre of their semi-circle to find commander Gangrene.

"Three troops. North of us. Two are circling left and right. All at full strength", Draco reports to both Harry and commander Gangrene, he never comments on Harry pointing his wand at him. The commander curses.

"They're trying to cut us off. Weasley! How long 'till back-up arrives!", he barks, drawing his baret from his head and then crunching it in his fist, like it was to blame for their situation. Draco glances at Harry from the corner of his eyes and Harry clances back, pulling up an eyebrow to signal that indeed, this has to be bad.

"Fifteen minutes, sir!" Ron answers the commander, then resumes his sending and reading. He's bend over a small black box, not unlike a pensieve, writing words with his wand that temporarely burn yellow on the face of the box before sinking into the black surface. Every now and then the box gives a soft beeping sound and the surface starts to glimmer like it's liqued. At these times Ron stops sending for a moment and reads any reports coming in. By now he's copying Draco's report to commander Snape.

"Fif- Fuck! We'll be toast by then!" Gangrene curses as he pulls the baret back over his head.

"At least we'll be tasteful, with all these nice pineapples lying around", Harry quips, a lopsided smile on his face. I can see Draco trying to hide a smile of his own. The left side of his mouth comes up a little though.

"Potter, unless you have something useful to say, shut the fuck up," the commander snaps. And Harry steps up to him. Gangrene is big, but Harry can look him in the eye without trouble. He stands, facing his commander, his broad shoulders squared, conviction radiating from his entire body.

The war has changed us all, but it certainly has changed Harry. Of course the training got rid of his skinnyness, replacing it with broad shoulders and muscles that paint different pictures on his body every time he moves. But the war also forced Harry into adulthood. There are very little things he's uncertain about anymore, the anger and sorrow the losses he has suffered have cost him were focused into a grim sort of determination. People have always followed The-Boy-Who-Lived, but now just as many follow Harry Potter, because he's a good leader. The horror of war pushed him beyond his emotional boundaries, but where most turn cold and ruthless, Harry takes the proof of how short live can be and uses it as a reminder to value what he has, always letting his friends know he loves them, never fearing to say what's on his mind. But it also thought him when to keep his mouth shut, that some things are better left unsaid. Not this time though.

"Send us up," Harry requests of the commander, his face set, his eyes serious. Gangrene almost chokes on air. It takes him about three seconds to regain his posture.

"Are you crazy? There are three full troops out there, or didn't you hear? You'll get your entire unit killed! No fucking way!" Gangrene bites, waving his arms about in denial. He knows that the war also instilled a yearning for danger in Harry. He's always pushing his bounderies, searching for things he and his team might just be able to pull off, or not.

"I heard. Send us up," Harry asks again. The commander stares at him, hard, searching green eyes for some indication whether this is about the thrill or about winning the battle. Then he shakes his head. He knows his troops and he knows Harry very well. Harry is good, extremely good, but he's not invincible and Harry knows this. He wouldn't risk this many lives if he didn't believe their changes were reasonable.

"I hope I won't regret this. Get up there," he tells Harry, then makes his way back to the frontline, where curses color the forest bright red, green and blue and shouts and screams still fill the air.

"Everybody knows your crazy," Draco mumbles as he and Harry make it back to their unit, ducking the odd spell that makes it all the way behind their line. Harry just smiles.

He's serious when addressing his men though, dead serious.

"We're in deep shit people. Three full troops, two circling left and right, back-up's fifteen minutes away," he reports. Somebody sucks in a wheezing breath.

"Damn right Chang. All these people here are going to be dead by that time, unless we save them," Harry continues. He's calm, poised and it reflects on his group.

"And how do you propose we do that?" Draco asks, always the smart mouth. Harry doesn't take the bait though. It has been a long time since Draco was able to get a real rouse out of him. The change goes both ways; they don't seem to get under each other's skin that much anymore.

"First of all, by not getting hit or killed. Second, I want the front line to remain here. With some luck, they won't notice you're just the front-line until it's too late," Harry explains.

"And if they do?" Wood ventures. He's in the centre of the group, leaning on his broomstick casually.

"Then you die," Harry answers coldly, then continues to explain his plan. "Second line, take the left flank and hit them before they reach us. Third line, take the right. Malfoy, you're with me. Any questions?"

Draco has to speak up again of course. "Yeah, what – pray tell – will _we_ be doing?" Harry smiles and I watch Draco's left eyebrow go up, stretching the scar that runs through it. He knows this smile and he knows it can't be good.

"We're going to be decoys, Malfoy. Those troops are going to need something to shoot at while our comrades move, don't they? And seeing as you did such a good job earlier on …" Harry doesn't finish his sentence, but Draco knows very well what he means. Him and Harry are undoubtedly the best fliers in the entire unit; therefore they have the best chance of making it out alive.

"Wanker," Draco mutters, but there's a smile on his face and a shine in his eyes. He loves the danger, they both do.

"Okay then, let's GO!" Harry bellows and they're all off.

I imagine it must be quite a confusing sight for our opponents, seeing a swarm of fliers taking off in different directions. I know it _is_ confusing them, when the enemy fire suddenly lightens up a bit. Commander Gangrene takes full advantage of it, sending a group forward under cover fire, eliminating almost an entire line in a couple of minutes. Score one for Potter.

When the force the commander send out returns, Harry and Draco are attracting fire. It's quite a spectacle, watching them fly. They're magnificent, especially together. Imagine seeing two of the best fliers your country has to offer and seeing them fly together, understanding each other perfectly. One knowing what the other will do before he has even made a move, the other knowing exactly how his companion will react. They twist and twirl through the sky at a maddening pace. Diving, spinning, making barrel rolls and executing loops. All the while they are firing curses and it's an incredible notion to realize that means they must be flying one handed. They seem like two predators jumping from tree to tree. Their chameleon suits adapting to the environment, colouring them brown and green like the trees or grey, if they happen to streak across a patch of sky.

The Death Eaters are madly trying to hit them with any spell they can think of. Blue, purple and orange streaks narrowly miss the pair and I am certain some are Aveda-green. Harry and Draco weave through them like snake people through a maze. Never moving to far away from one spell, to make sure there's enough room to evade the next.

And while all three Death Eater troops are concentrated on the commander, Draco and Harry, Harry's second and third lines swiftly make their ways through the forest to attack the Death Eaters flanks. Their chameleon suits providing cover for their advance. And suddenly they're all over the enemy, passing overhead, pelting them with spells, turning and spinning, attacking from the rear next, then left, then right and left again.

The march against our flanks has been stopped, but the Death Eaters aren't stupid. By now they will have realized that the fact that there are troops attacking their left and right flank, must mean that our centre is weak. I see Potter signalling to Malfoy and know that the enemy is advancing.

We're in trouble: it's been only ten minutes; back up is still a good five minutes away. It's impossible for Harry to recall his second and third line: it would kill them and it would give the Death Eaters ranks the possibility to attack our sides. To top it all off, our weak centre is about to be attacked by a much stronger troop of Death Eaters. If they loose, we'll be split in two. I see several people looking up to the sky, to Harry, for a solution and gasp in shock at what they see.

Harry is plummeting straight for the lines of Death Eaters that are making their way to our centre, Draco in his wake. It's daring yes, but also stupid. If Harry gets captured, the war is over. He'll be killed, there'll be no one to stop Voldemort and we'll lose. I suspect that's why Draco is in his wake. No matter how those two fought in school and still fight sometimes, Draco will do everything in his power to keep Harry alive.

I breathe a sigh of relieve as I see the both of them come up out of the lines of Death Eaters. They turn and, like their comrades before them, pelt the enemy from behind. They're flying dangerously now, not evading spells and shooting in hopes of hitting someone, but aiming to hit someone and hoping they don't get hit first. They can't keep doing this, their luck will run out. And it does. It's Draco who goes down first.

A blue streak of light hits the back of his broom and takes most of the tail off. Without it, the broom's nearly impossible to navigate, keeping it aloft is deemed to be undoable even for someone with godly powers.

Luckily Draco manages to reach our part of the woods before crashing through the bushes. He hits the ground and rolls several metres, a tangle of arms and legs. At some point, I clearly hear something snap. He's on his feet in no time though, looking around for his broom.

The second line of Harry's troops has pushed their enemy back and is getting closer to friendly troops. Draco calls out to Chang as she passes him within hearing distance. She turns and hovers in front of him.

"Get Potter out of there, now," Draco tells her. She looks towards were Harry is still trying to slow the march, even if it is on his own. He's not shooting as frequently as he was and I see a worried expression cross Draco's face. Harry's getting tired and he knows it.

"But, sir," Chang starts. Draco steps up to her and yanks her broom down with his left arm. She has to grip on tight to prevent from slipping of the front and ends up almost nose-to-nose with Draco. His right arm is hanging limply by his side. So that's what snapped. Chang stares into blazing blue eyes, defiant, but already loosing the battle.

"Do it Chang, _now_. Or step of your broom so I can get him myself," Draco orders. Chang stares a bit longer, then drops her gaze. She nods and takes of in Harry's direction. Draco hurries of to the front line.

Chang flies with Harry for three runs, barely keeping up with him. On the fourth run, she manages to give him cover fire so he can get to the front line. Harry breaks just before the line and returns the favour, giving Chang the opportunity to get out of there herself.

Our back's are against the wall now. Harry's nearly spend, Draco's injured and our lines are barely holding their positions. Even the commander looks worried. It's no wonder a loud cheer goes up when a group of thirty fliers suddenly streaks over our heads and attack the Death Eaters ahead of us.

"It's team Thestrall, they're here!" Darkholme shouts. The call is taken up and echoed through our lines. Within minutes we are joined and then overtaken by Thestrall's ground troops, pushing the Death Eaters back. It's over within minutes. The Death Eaters are outnumbered and call the retreat. Snape orders his fliers to pursue, then shakes hands with Gangrene. His look is as sour as ever.

Draco only nods at his former potions master before marching off through the lines to find Harry. The latter is sitting on a tree stump, overseeing the battlefield. The forest floor is blackened in so many places it looks like a burn site. And somehow, the fact that most of the trees are still standing and green is not a comfort; it makes the entire thing look alien, like we're not really in a forest at all. Twillight is swiftly settling into darkness and strange shadows play around in the woods, morphing branches into strange, sharplined monsters and sounds into the calls of ghosts that are not really here.

The wounded that can still walk are making their way to the infirmary in the back of the camp. Those that can't are treated on the spot by a field medic as good as possible before being picked up and carried off the field. It's a depressing sight, but taking into account the way the battle went, the number of casualties is low. Harry looks up frowning when Draco reaches him.

"What the hell were you thinking up there, Potter?" Draco asks none to kindly. He's stepped in front of Harry, blocking his vision of the emptying battlefield.

"That I needed to save our butts?" Harry ventures. He's clearly annoyed with Draco's questioning and gets up to walk away. Draco grabs hold of his arm and spins him around however.

"You could have gotten yourself killed, you moron", he hisses and for a moment it's difficult to discern if he's feeling guilty about being taken down and ubable to protect Harry or angry with Harry for taking the risk in the first place. Several people close by have stopped and turn. This was going to get nasty.

Harry's eyes practically shoot fire as he speaks. "Like you care whether I live or die," he says, pulling his arm free. The sudden movement causes Draco's right arm to swing a little and he winces. It doesn't stop him from answering though.

"You bloody well know I do. We all do. Without you-"

"There's no one to defeat Voldemort, we loose the war and doom and destruction will descend upon the world, blah blah blah. Yes, I _know_, okay?" Harry answers, exasperated.

"Then don't put yourself in these situations!" Draco tells him, equally annoyed.

"What I do and don't do is none of your bloody business, alright!"

"It bloody well is! I do not plan on loosing this war, therefore I do not plan on letting you get yourself killed!"

"I didn't get myself killed!"

"You took an irresponsible risk!"

"You're one to talk about being irresponsible!"

By know the leader of group red is standing nose to nose with his second in command. Both are panting, their hands balled into tight, white knuckled fists. Those that have stopped to watch the scene clear away, so does everybody else. Magical energy bends trees in a wide circle around these two men; this isn't an area any witch or wizard wants to be near to right now.

Suddenly Harry lunges and grabs the front of Draco's robes, but he let's go immediately, a shocked expression crossing his face, when Draco gasps and takes hold of his right arm.

"You're hurt," Harry realizes, a worried tone underlining his voice. Draco slowly recovers and draws himself up straight again. He shrugs with his good shoulder.

"It's nothing Hermoine can't fix," he points out casually.

"Then get her to fix it," Harry says. Draco opens his mouth to answer, but Harry is already walking away. I've watched these conversations between them several times. They still fight, but something is profoundly different about them. They look out for each other, joke with each other. There's a sort of camaraderie between them. It's not surprising they would act civil towards one another; they are on the same team and if they want to survive this war, they'll have to trust each other to some extend. But I never expected to see the understanding and acceptance underneath.

I thought Harry took Draco as his second in command, because he wanted to 'keep his enemy closer'. And for Draco it looks like a good way to get Harry out of the picture and get promoted at the same time, but he seems to have had different motives when he turned down the chance to become group leader and asked to be Harry's second man instead.

As such, they share their quarters. It's not much while we're out in the field. Basically it's a Muggle tent, magically altered to be larger, stronger, warmer and sound proof. It's also lighter, so it's less straining to carry around during marches like the one we're about to take off on now. There was an attack, our camp has been discovered, thus we have to move to a new possition right away. The wounded that are unable to face up to such a march or can't follow for any other reason are taken back to Snape's camp.

The march is silent, mostly because talking would betray us, but also because everybody is busy with his own thoughts of the battle. Commanders thinking over what they can contribute to the debrieving, soldiers thinking about the friends they saved or had to leave behind. But after two hours, exhaustion takes it's toll and all thoughts cease. There's a collective sigh of relief as commander Gangrene finally halts the march after another hour and orders his commanders for a debrieving and his soldiers to make camp.

After debrieving, Harry takes a shower and heads for his quarters straight away. It seems the fight and march took more out of him than he want's to let on.

In the meantime, Draco visits Hermoine in the sick bay, a large rectangled tent situated at the back of the camp, the most comfortable of all. It's a shame really that those who end up here usually can't enjoy the comfort of it. Hermoine spots Draco as soon as he enters. They're weird that way. Draco does stand out amongst most crowds yes, his pale blond hair doing nothing to cover up those beautiful features, but Hermoine seems to have some sort of sensor that detects him. Like Harry, she feels him when he's near and she orders a nurse to take over her current patient as soon as Draco enters the sick bay.

She gets up, dusts of her lime green mediwizard robes and walks over to him.

"'Moine," Draco sighs and hugs the mediwitch, drawing her to his chest with his good arm, burrying his face in her soft curls. "Could you help me out here?" he asks. It's only then that Hermoine notices he's hurt and she disloges from him as if he's burning, checking him over even while making him sit down on a nearby bed.

"What happened?" she wants to know as soon as she finds his busted arm. Draco shrugs with his good arm and lets Hermoine fuss over him.

"I got hit, I fell," he states simply as if that bit of information is everything Hermoine's ever going to need. The mediwitch sighs in irritation.

"A bit more info please," she commands briskly, while walking over towards a large cabinet that stands near the bed Draco's sitting on. Draco tells his story of the battle while she gets a bright red vial and a white bottle shaped like a rib cage from the cabinet and proceeds to mix the contents of both together, while muttering a spell.

"Why do you two always have to be so reckless? It's dangerous; one of you is going to get himself in serious trouble one of these days. And Harry, what in the world is he thinking! If he dies, there's no way we can win this war," Hermoine scolds when Draco finishes his story. Her former enemy takes the cup she offers him and downs the contents in one gulp.

"Gah, it tastes horrible! I told Harry the very same thing. Of course he blew up at me because of that but ... I don't want him to die," Draco confesses. Hermoine kneels in front of him and cups his cheek with her left hand, taking the cup with her right.

"I don't want _you_ to die either, Draco," she tells him softly and as Draco pulls her back up, into a proper embrace now that his arm is healed, Harry retreats from the entrance of the sick bay, an angry expression on his face.

"Oh, and it's the bats blood that makes it taste so bad," Hermoine tells Draco with a small smile as she pulls out of his embrace. Harry's second in command shakes his head and smiles a little.

"I should've known. Thanks 'Moine, for this," he says as he flexes his arm. "And for listening." Hermoine grins at him.

"Don't thank me yet, in about half an hour, your arm will start to hurt like hell," her grin fades as she continues. "And there's nothing I can do about that, we're all out of painkillers. I'm sorry, you'll just have to endure it." Draco shrugs as he walks out of the infirmary.

"It's all right, I can take some pain," he calls over his shoulder. Hermoine watches his retreating back, lean muscles outlined through the tight fabric of his combat suit.

"Physical pain yes, but the amount of emotional pain you can stand has limits, Draco. And you and I both know, you've almost reached those," she whispers.

When Draco enters their quarters, Harry pretends to be asleep. He's turned away from Draco's bed, facing the tents side and keeping his breathing regular. But he's not asleep. It's obvious because of the pain still set in his face.

Draco takes of his clothes and folds them neatly before placing them on the floor next to his camp bed. He looks at Harry for a moment, grey eyes sweeping over him, his posture tense, like he's fighting an inner battle. He turns abruptly and gets into his bed, drifting off to sleep almost immediately.

Once Draco's breathing has become deep and regular Harry opens his eyes and turns around, staring at Draco's silhouetted form, a black outline in the darkness. Harry keeps staring, his eyes opening up and releasing an immense sadness. Several minutes pass and Harry's still looking at the man in the bed opposite his, it's like he can't take his eyes away from the slight rise and fall of Draco's chest or the lock of soft blond hair that has fallen over his eyes and moves slightly with every exhale.

Eventually Harry gets out of bed and walks over to Draco, his eyes having adjusted to the darkness. He kneels by Draco's bedside and slowely, agonizingly slowely reaches out to push the loose fringe behind Draco's ear and whispers: "Thank you, for saving me today". Draco sighes at his touch and Harry closes his eyes for a moment. It's a painful gesture, like Draco's sigh cuts him to the bone. Eventually he regains his balance and gets up to return to his own bed, but Draco suddenly groans in pain. Harry turns sharply, returning to the other mans bedside without a thought.

"Draco? Draco, what is it?" Harry whispers urgently, kneeling down to get to eyelevel. In response Draco opens his eyes and gingerly touches his right arm, turning his head away from Harry to look at it.

"Gn- it's my arm, Hermoine warned me it would hurt like hell, but this is- argh!" Draco rolls into a fetal ball, holding his arm as waves of pain shoot through it. Harry looks on in horror, not knowing what to do, wanting to comfort, but unsure if he's alowed.

Draco tenses as another wave of pain hits him and this time Harry leans over towards him without hesitation, placing his hands on the matress to push himself up. A slender hand grabs one of his, squeezing too tightly, transferring some of the pain onto him. All doubt leaves Harry as he laces his fingers through Draco's and sits down on the edge of the bed.

"It's okay, you can squeez my hand if it hurts," Harry tells the other man kindly, not caring that he sounds childish. Draco relaxes slightly, his body uncurling somewhat, his eyes boring into Harry's, telling Harry things he really doesn't want to know. But Harry can't help staring back, reading the stories in Draco's eyes. The moment seems to freeze in time. Everything around him drops away. The tent, the soft feel of Draco's combatsuit under his bare feet, the bed he's sitting on, even the sound of their breathing. In that moment all that exists to Harry are a pair of blueish grey eyes and a hand clutching his own. Just when Harry thinks he can't stand it much longer Draco tenses again, bumping his head against Harry's leg and gasping in the onslaught of pain.

Harry can do nothing but sit there, holding Draco's hand and watching him as pain attacks him again and again. In between waves of pain, Draco actually manages to smile up at his counterpart. A slight sheen of sweat glissens on his face, but his eyes are soft, compliant, like this isn't as bad as it looks.

"Thank you," is all he can whisper, before another wave of pain destroys his ability to speak.


End file.
